No Regression for the Victor - Chapter 20

So began the week when Marcel’s headaches—which he couldn’t share with anyone—first took hold. Mikhail, with an innocent expression, returned after making the situation even more complicated.

“Your Highness? Didn’t you say you were just going to help out a little?”

Marcel pressed his knuckles hard against his brow, gritting his teeth, unable to accept the reality before him, while Mikhail averted his gaze. Judging by the way his lips were twitching, he wasn’t entirely free of guilt, at least.

“Well, you see… Soon, when winter comes, all the seeds we’ve worked so hard to plant will freeze and die… That’s just such a waste.”

It’s not about being wasteful or not—why are you even helping with this in the first place! Marcel patted his chest as if to dust away the cracks of a field struck by severe drought and wiped away his tears.

“So what you’re saying is, a Prince of Osbrandt himself has declared that he’ll become the carpenter and build a greenhouse?”

At Marcel’s sharp, raised voice, Mikhail jumped in surprise and clapped a hand over Marcel’s mouth.

“Shh, keep your voice down! What if someone hears you from outside?”

“And you, who’s supposedly worried about that, went and did something like this?”

“I told you, it’s all so I can get a better look at what kind of person the Duke really is—”

At Mikhail’s excuse, Marcel’s voice rose again.

“Getting to the bottom of things is my job, Your Highness! And among the many duties I’m responsible for, one is safely escorting you back to the imperial palace! What were you thinking, acting so recklessly—?”

As Marcel’s scolding poured out in rapid-fire, Mikhail suddenly looked at him with a gaze so clear it was chilling.

“I know you’re worried. But Marcel, before anything else, there’s just one thing I’d like you to remember.”

Then, with a wide grin, he effortlessly lifted Marcel’s sturdy frame with one arm. He was so strong that, although Marcel was confident in his own skills in a brawl—unless it was against an elite knight—he couldn’t budge at all, dangling helplessly.

“Your Highness? Wh-what is this?!”

Marcel struggled to get free, upside down, but couldn’t even loosen Mikhail’s grip. Only after he’d wriggled until all his strength was gone and he gave up did Mikhail, still smiling, put him down.

“I’m not some naïve fourteen-year-old anymore. I’m still going to get taller, but I don’t think of myself as small. Even Vasily, known as the empire’s greatest sword, can’t beat me at arm wrestling. Do you really think I’m in that much danger?”

It was the truth. The prince’s open, easygoing manner and lingering boyish cuteness aside, the captain of the emperor’s own guard—an official knight—only barely beat Mikhail at swordplay these days, and even in a contest of pure strength, he’d started losing since last year.

Everyone knew—at least in their heads—that Mikhail was a monster of a man who could tear apart monsters with his bare hands, but every time, Marcel’s heart just couldn’t accept it. Swearing under his breath, Marcel answered weakly,

“All right, fine, just put me down now. The blood’s rushing to my head—I’m getting dizzy.”

“Oh.”

Mikhail had acted drastically only to assert his will to Marcel, but clearly had no intention of hurting him, and so quickly set him down.

“Anyway, you really don’t have to worry. I’m well aware of just how strong the Duke is…”

But just as Mikhail was boasting, Marcel kicked at Mikhail’s left leg.

“But it’ll be another ten years before you can get the better of me, Your Highness!”

He’d intended to prove that no matter how strong someone was, nobody could defend against a surprise attack.

Unfortunately for Marcel, Mikhail simply blocked the attack without the slightest tremor, grabbed Marcel by the ankle, and lifted him up again.

“Argh!”

Once more, Marcel was dangling upside down, face to face with Mikhail’s annoyingly bright smile.

“See? I don’t think I’m that far behind. Let’s work together, Marcel.”

At the sight of that confident expression, Marcel felt his headache double in intensity.

Strictly speaking, it was completely improper to treat the prince like some neighborhood brat. Yet, whenever it came to Mikhail, Marcel always ended up treating him like a nephew, just as he’d done since the days when the wild, scrappy mercenary boy had suddenly become a prince.

Back then, he’d thought, “Well, maybe it’s okay to have one royal who isn’t all stiff and high-handed,” and genuinely cared for Mikhail as if for his own nephew. How had he grown into a man so suddenly? He hadn’t even gone through his first rut yet, still a downy-faced youth.

“Sniff…”

As Marcel mourned the uselessness of raising this boy as though he was a nephew—since in the end he always just did whatever he pleased anyway—Mikhail’s mind was once again filled with thoughts of the striking man he’d seen today.